


To love God is to love a sinner

by FeuillesMortes



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The Hollow Crown (2012), The White Princess (TV), The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, And other fun things, Angst, Blood and Injury, F/M, Georgian Period, Georgian colloquialisms, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-03-14 19:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13596936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeuillesMortes/pseuds/FeuillesMortes
Summary: A spin on the relationship between Richard III and Henry VII, set during the Napoleonic Wars.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nami64](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nami64/gifts).



> You can all blame nami64 for inspiring me to write for this pairing. Also, imagine them wearing some proper early 19th century clothing. A sight, isn't it?

Captain Henry Tudor, distinguished officer of the Royal Navy, sat across from Captain Gloucester holding a snuff box of his own. His blue frock coat and bright epaulettes contrasted markedly against the dimness of the room. His shirt linen was immaculate and his cravat, elaborately knotted. New gold, new blood. Those were strange times, Richard reckoned with a hint of displeasure, strange times indeed. Some decades ago, none would dare to think that he, the youngest son of a duke, would share the same officer rank as a man dispossessed of the virtue of birth.

Captain Gloucester was a well-off gentleman, and had made his entire military career in His Majesty’s Naval Service. All of his life, he had had comrade-in-arms who wore their estates upon their backs as a badge of honour. And yet, as much as it would please Richard to think of his fellow naval officer as some jumped-up son of the gentry — He knew, most begrudgingly so, that Henry Tudor had risen far and high according to his own merits and expertise; a man that had made himself a name in the war.

That particular night they were staying at the reputable Hotel of B– , and all but a few ragged officers had already retired to their own lodgings, be it for the lateness of the hour or the strength of the brandy shared during dinner. The few men still standing devoted their attention to the game going on at the billiard table. Henry Tudor, it seemed, was the sole soul who still followed through Richard’s train of thought.

“I daresay,” he concluded in his most imperial voice, “that this most pitiful attempt at peace with the French will be the downfall of Britain. Do mark my words.”

“Well, I daresay, Captain Gloucester,” Tudor’s voice had his usual trace of mockery, the subtlest of hints, but enough to make Richard grit his teeth. “That this talk of peace has done much more for Britain than any childish squabble so far.”

“Childish squabble? Good grief, Captain! What of Lord Nelson’s sacrifice? Has it been for naught? Give me some good twenty ships, I say, and as Lord Nelson himself at Trafalgar, I shall wound the French so deeply Hanover will be restored to our good King George.”

“Some twenty ships, you say, but where would you find the numbers to man them?”

“Why, my own men could do the work! And naturally, whomever else the Admiralty chose to grant me. Loyal men to King and Country, that is all I need.” He thought of his own valiant ship, the HMS Loyalty.

“To entertain such ideas in times of peace is a strange notion, Captain. A man would be a fool to leave wife and children to go to war again, and if he says otherwise he is no more than a liar. Nay, Captain Gloucester.” There again, the subtle trace of a mocking smile. “Men are not moved by the love of a country, but rather, a generous sum of money.”

Richard’s infamous short temper got the better of him. “Perhaps your men, Captain Tudor. I trust mine to be honourable.”

Henry Tudor only blinked. “If you asked for my frank opinion, and an honest opinion it is from friend to friend, I would say you trust your men too much. Far too much I should add.”

“You call me delusional, Captain? For trusting them to do their civic duty?”

“Those are your own words, Captain. Not mine.” His eyes twitched with something akin to malice. “Were they mine, I would certainly phrase them differently.”

Richard’s nostrils flared as he watched Captain Tudor nonchalantly open and close his silver box to take a snuff as if their conversation had not disturbed him in the least. Henry Tudor looked tranquil and well-rested, even amused. Richard suspected that was not his own case, a suspicion that was only confirmed as Captain Tudor glanced in his direction once again and grinned.

“Why, Captain Gloucester, I do believe I have angered you. You have the most peculiar expression on your face. Most peculiar, indeed!”

Richard’s humour was dark, devoid of any good cheer. “Does my countenance amuse you?”

Henry Tudor leaned in, propping himself up on one elbow. “I must confess, Captain, that you have the most peculiar countenance I have ever seen.” His eyes scanned his face, unabashedly. “Something about the way you move your brows, I think. A man does not easily forget a face like yours, no. Do trust me, Gloucester, for I have seen much and learned a great deal in my time in France. I was… certainly not idle there.”

 _And he says so with such pride_. “Tread carefully, Captain. To hear you talk, one could think you sympathise too much with the French.”

“Ha! I dare anyone to say so.” His face turned mischievous. “Though I must admit to have taken a certain… fancy… for the Corsican Fiend. To be called the nightmare of Europe is no small feat, I presume.”

Richard found himself in such a state of apoplexy he could not utter a word, but Henry Tudor only chuckled at his inability. “Have I done enough to be accused now, Captain? Or should I furnish you with other such treasonous thoughts? Should I say _Vive l’Empereur_ , _Vive Bonaparte_ , to make it easier for you to charge me?”

“Gracious heavens, Captain! You jest! I had half a mind to call you a traitor, yes.”

Captain Tudor delighted in his triumph. “I jest, yes. You see, I would loathe for us to part on bad terms.” Again, the barest hint of a smile played on his lips. “I know what a formidable foe you can be. A cruel one too, if what they say is true.”

He scanned his face again, searching for something. “But not to worry, Captain. I tend not to heed evil words.” His voice dropped. “We are all sinners in the eyes of God, are we not?”

Their eyes met, clashed and subsided. “You say the most disparaging, wicked things with such a serious face, Tudor. I never know when you are joking.”

“Perhaps that is one trait we have in common, Gloucester. You are often times too serious. We should remedy that fault together someday.” Captain Tudor got up from the table, buttoning up his coat. “À demain, my friend.” And with a small nod, he took the stairs to his room.

 _I am not your friend_ , Richard wanted to tell him, but he only stared after him. In his mind he saw Tudor’s triumphant smile again and again. He would like to erase it from his face, to do something cruel to that smiling mouth. Many people called him vicious, half his men were afraid of him. Let them be; Richard would give them all a reason to call him ungodly. He could show Captain Tudor what foul deeds cruel hands and cruel lips commit after dark.


	2. Chapter 2

The small room smelled of blood and salt, a metallic sting cutting the air. The cabin was quiet. It swayed gently from side to side with the rolling of the waves. No longer the clamours of war could be heard outside. No more the sound of trumpets and shouts of men, no more loud explosions preceding cannonballs, gunshots, no more sharp splinters of wood filling the skies. If there were ever truly a calm after the storm it would be like this: blood-soaked, sweat-dripping, sore-limbed numbness.

Richard lied in bed impatiently — he would be tossing from side to side if he could. He was not made for this. The endless waiting, hours after hours spent in idle so his body could heal from his wounds. Captain Gloucester was a man of action, his strides surefooted and quick enough to take him into the thickest of battle whenever duty called him. Once when he had been only a boy, his brothers had laughed at his size: too weak, they had deemed him, his back too bent, distorted, too twisted to turn him into a war hero. Richard wished they could see him just then — his arms were deadly with a bayonet, his hands swift to kill with a gun.

But there was no conjuring of the dead, nor point in dwelling in the past. Edward and George were long buried. Both, Richard mused, struck by the vices they had chosen to spend their lives over. Richard had long decided that would not be his fate. He dedicated his life to his King and Country most vigorously, bursting with military ardour to resist the French invasion. Once he had ceased to be, no man in the Empire would be able to say Captain Gloucester had not lived and fought bravely till his last breath.

Grunting, he wiped the sweat rolling down his forehead and wished those thoughts away. Death lurked in that cabin, he could feel it, the iron stench calling his name with its thin skeleton grip. A knock on the door paused those wicked thoughts from running freely in his head. Richard pushed himself up to a sitting position and mustered his most firm voice. “Come in.”

He was not surprised to see Captain Tudor. He had been expecting him, perhaps had even been alarmed to find himself counting the moments to see him at last. Other officers had been to see him already, as well as his whole command. They had stopped to greet their wounded comrade, all long faces and sympathy words. Not long had they done it, though, Gloucester had heard their billowing voices from outside his cabin — jolly young fellows roaring over the whisky-punch. Their division was heading home at least.

Entering the small room, Captain Tudor had his coat unbuttoned, revealing a small blood smudge on his waistcoat. There was no telling whose blood that was. His mop of curls was dampened and flattened where his bicorne hat, now under his arm, had once been. Oddly, those were the only signals of distress the captain displayed. Looking at him now, none could say he had recently been in action. For once, his eyes were not sharp, verging on mockery. Perhaps the sight of Richard lying wounded and bandaged had given him pause.

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to disturb you. I see you’re in prayer.”

Richard was confused for a moment, eyebrows furrowing together in a knot. “I’m not.”

The captain’s lips quirked upwards slightly. He gestured at the chaplet woven around his left wrist. “You must forgive me for assuming.”

“Oh, this. A lucky charm, is all. Meant to be worn in battle.” Richard watched Tudor’s face closely, searching for any trace of skepticism. He knew Captain Tudor was one of those men that believed in making their own luck.

Yet Captain Tudor’s rebuttal never came. “It has served you well...” His eyes raked over his ragged form lying back against the stacked pillows. "...if only partially.”

Richard huffed the ghost of a laugh. “Yes, I’m afraid it was not much of a service to my father either.”

“Your father?”

“Killed in action. The American War, that was.”

If Tudor thought Richard meant to follow his namesake’s footsteps he did not say so. He ran a pensive hand over his hair and laid his hat on Richard’s writing desk.

“My father served in the military as well, but he did not meet such a tale-worth end.” It was possible that there was the slightest trace of scorn in Tudor’s voice, but Richard couldn’t tell for certain. The captain lowered his eyes and shook his head. “The yellow fever caught him twice at Nassau. He never came back from the West Indies.”

Captain Tudor was serious as Richard had never seen him before, a grim setting of his jaw framing his face. He almost looked like a statue standing there, so still he was, his legs planted in the cabin like solid trunks undisturbed by the waves. Henry Tudor was not so much a man of action as he was a man of the sea. That was his advantage as a captain: he knew it intimately, all its whims and tricks, the best opportunities to sail, attack and retreat. Tudor had once declared he knew the sea by heart, with all the trained expertise of a lover.

At that moment in the cabin, Richard took a long studious look at the captain’s face. It could be marble for all he knew, carved in stone for eternities without end. All that talk of deceased relatives had left a sour taste in his mouth. It seemed that no matter where they turned to, death followed suit, creeping in their bones like an omen. Richard felt the need to cross himself but didn’t. He swallowed without meaning to.

Tudor got hold of the only chair in the room and dragged it to place it at Richard’s bedside. “It seems to me, Captain, that in quarrelous times such as these men prefer a glorious death over the promise of a long fulfilled life.”

He lowered himself to the chair and eyed Richard’s wounds with calm scrutiny. His comment hanged in the air with a reproaching sharp edge to it, but Richard refused to be chided. He had no particular liking to be sermonised. Gloucester scoffed, the heaving of his chest sending a small sting of pain that he tried to hide from the captain’s prying eyes. Some hours before, the apothecary had paid him a visit to medicate him, but Richard didn’t know what was worse: fighting the drowsiness of the pills or the lasting dullness of his pain.

“An odd thing for a military man to say, for sure.”

“Is that so?” Tudor blinked slowly. His face was so undisturbed Richard didn’t know whether that was a genuine question or not.

Richard couldn’t help frowning. He felt like arguing with a child. He felt like the arguing child. “Where is your honour, Tudor, if you’re not prepared to die for duty? _Long fulfilled life_ be hanged!”

“I have always thought, Captain—” Tudor paused to smooth a wrinkle in the fabric of his coat’s arm sleeve, a pause long enough to enrage Richard. Captain Tudor had the best tailored coats in the division, and a great number of them too. “—I have always thought that a man’s first duty is to his loved ones. He cannot possibly protect them from the grave, can he?”

Gloucester opened his mouth to rebuke him, but Tudor held out a hand. “Good heavens, Captain! Enough of philosophical talk for today.”

It had always been like that between the two of them: Captain Tudor making the most absurd remarks to contradict him, Richard doing his best to keep his temper from lashing out. Theirs was a sparring of sorts. It seemed to Richard that Henry Tudor had a talent for speaking nonsense and scandal with the most astonishing perverseness.

“Will you let me see them?” Tudor’s words rang in the silence that followed. “Your wounds.”

Richard was bare-chested, the string of fabric slung around his shoulders and chest was stained with old coppery blood. Oddly enough, Captain Tudor’s request did not surprise him. He slowly worked his way around the bandages to reveal two bullet wounds: one shot at his shoulder, another one lounged in his ribs. From the right angle, it could have taken his heart.

Captain Tudor grimaced, pursing his lips together. “The gallant fool.”

Launching his attack, Richard had prepared himself for the judgement of the sea. He had been shot twice, his body propelled forward to plunge him deep into cold waters that turned a rich crimson. A miracle, they had said, that the HMS _Red Dragon_ had come just in time to throw back the French assault. Captain Tudor and his men had leapt for the rescue, Richard’s body found and salvaged from the sea jaws.

Henry Tudor got hold of the damp cloth resting on the basin and squeezed it. The tone he assumed was surprisingly unemotional, not quite fitting the content of his words. “I saw you from my ship. What were you thinking, old fellow? Running to the prow, exposing yourself to open fire?”

Richard levelled his eyes with a hard stare. “Every captain must be prepared to sink with his ship.”

For once Tudor did not try to contradict him. Instead, and perhaps most oddly, he smiled. “The very picture of _l’infame Anglais_ , I see. Quite the infernal villain.”

He pressed the cloth to Richard’s shoulder wound. Gloucester winced, but that didn’t stop Tudor’s ministrations. “You should let it breathe. I’m sure the surgeon told you so.” Richard closed his eyes shut to the sharpness of the pain the motion inflicted. “Why, Captain. To be quite quite fair, I must say I’ve seen worse wounds—”

Richard opened his eyes again and encircled the captain’s wrist with surprising strength. “I’ve had my valet see to it.”

His brusque motion had brought them uncomfortably close together, but Tudor did not so much as blink. “Yet I want to do it.”

Richard hesitated at the sureness he found in his voice. _I want to do it_. He let go of his wrist and settled back on the pillows, closing his eyes once more. When Tudor spoke again, his voice seemed to have come from far, far away.

“Do you know what my reckoning is, Captain? I daresay this war will go on for much, much longer.”

Richard thought of Napoleon’s shadow: gigantic, menacing, looming over Europe. “I suppose it will. Your friend Boney has certainly seen to it.”

He popped one eye open to steal a glance at the captain in time to see him smile. It was a jest Gloucester made often at him — Ever after having been in France, Henry Tudor loved French books, French cookery, and French wines. A dreadfully unpatriotic trait, one could say, but no less scandalous than his reputation of being a Radical. Captain Tudor had more than once been found reading Voltaire, and was reputed to know Rousseau by heart.

“How will fare then?”

His eyes opened in full force. “I will fight. Upon my soul, Captain, I will!”

“Not in this state, I reckon you won’t.”

He was obliged to agree. “After my leave, then.”

Captain Tudor seemed to consider that for a while. “Do you have anyone to go home to?”

Richard thought of his late wife Anne, taken by the consumption many months before. God bless her soul. “No.”

Henry Tudor nodded solemnly and resumed his task in silence. He was returning the cloth to the basin when Richard caught him seemingly unawares with a question. “Do you, Tudor?”

“Pardon?”

Richard ignored his French. “Do you have anyone to go home to?”

“I should like to know why you ask, pray?” Tudor eyed him suspiciously. “Are you particularly interested?”

Richard scoffed in irritation, especially since he was not the one to come up with that question in the first place. _I could ask you the same damned thing!_  “I may owe you my life, Captain, but by Jove! You can be beastly company when you want to.”

“Now that’s a pity. I had decided to make myself perfectly agreeable to you.” Captain Tudor grinned, a great deal too good-humoured. “And you do know I’m not the generous sort of fellow.”

Richard didn’t take much time to consider what that might imply. “Joke away, Captain. Joke away. I know your jests and quips are just a mask. You’re afraid, aren’t you, that people will see you for who you truly are.”

Henry Tudor blinked slowly, his eyes luminous and phosphorescent in the growing shadowiness of the cabin. He tilted his head to the side, not without some amusement. As if he was an expert player who had just come across an interesting contender at cards. It would often happen with such people who excelled at games of skill: they would meet said challengers with interest, slowing down to a halt, almost as if they were waiting for an overturn. Almost as if they were just waiting to see what it was like to lose, just once.

“Who am I, Richard?”

The use of his Christian name was not lost on Captain Gloucester. It shamed him and riled him at once. “I should not say it.”

“Should not or will not?” Tudor leaned in, a hand pressing down on Richard’s kneecap. “Pray, do you dare to tell me?”

His touch sent a bolt to Richard’s core. It reminded him of a night not so long ago, an evening drenched with too much claret. He had been uncommonly wild that night, looking for a round of fight like a simple truant. He had been so furious at Captain Tudor then, he hadn’t known whether to kill him or consume him or eat him alive. As way of a sound thrashing, he had pushed Tudor against a wall when his better sense got hold of him. The memory burned in his face bright and hot.

Tudor was waiting for his answer still. “Tell me.” Gloucester refused, shook his head from side to side. Tudor repeated his question more loudly. “Tell me, Richard.”

“A godless man of the world! That’s what you are.” Gloucester’s blood sang loudly at his ears. “A rake leeching off at people’s vices. A sinner.”

Henry Tudor leaned closer still, contemplating his face with a statuesque calm. “Hunger, Captain. Hunger is the purest sin.” He laid a hand on the underside of his chin, tipped it upwards. “May we never starve.”

His mouth landed on his like a bird diving for a kill. His lips slashed against his greedily. Tongues, teeth, a battle between two mouths. Perhaps for the first time ever in history, there was no telling who was the winner and who was the loser. They parted, both reaching for air. Tudor ran a hand through his hair, pushed a fallen strand from over his eyes. He stood up, smoothing down his vest.

“Good night, Captain.”

He got hold of his bicorne and was turning to leave when Richard overcame his stupor. It was as if suddenly he had fallen into a spell.

“Is that it?”

Tudor turned back and raised an eyebrow. “Say, Captain?”

“Is that it all?”

Again, the slightest trace of a smile. “I do not suppose your condition would allow you _more_ , do you?”

“Then come with me.” Richard sputtered his words without a moment’s hesitation, or rather, a moment’s consideration. The profaneness and folly of a moment, he would later blame. “Come home with me. Ask the Admiralty for a leave. The division won’t be ordered on service so soon. We won’t be called abroad for some time.”

For the first time ever, Henry Tudor didn’t look like he knew what to do. The look of confusion stamped over his features was almost too delightful. He frowned, as though mulling Gloucester’s suggestion over and over. “I will think about it, Richard.”

“Surely you will.” His name on his lips again, Richard knew he had won that round. “Good night, Captain.”


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s rather slow work down here, don’t you think, old fellow? Shall we go and see the horses?”

Captain Henry Tudor shuffled the cards laid before him with dexterous fingers. The table at which they sat was conveniently placed by the window, catching what it could of the morning’s milky and warm sunlight. His linen shirt hanged loose, displaced on the shoulders. His neckcloth flaunted untied around his neck. The rest of his clothes — including his faultless boots, his French grey trousers and spotless military frock-coat — all laid scattered along the carpeted floor. Richard’s state of undressing was much the same. They had passed a great deal of the late summer in that room. Ancient mobilia, green draped curtains with gold tassels along the walls, a ticking longcase clock to count the hours.

Nimble fingers and watchful eyes. Tudor was the one to cut the highest card, the queen of hearts. He proceeded then to deal with the greatest precision. One card up, one card down. One card up, one card down. One up, one down. One up… The next card face up was a jack of spades. Richard grimaced and wrote down Tudor’s first scored point with a low grunt . The game had just begun and he was already one point behind. Captain Tudor might be a devil of a fellow at cards, but Richard, him too, had some tricks up his sleeve.

“You are awfully quiet today, Richard.” The captain waited for him to follow suit, tapping his fingers on the table surface. “Suppose we go and drive out the coach-and-four? What do you say?”

Richard played his card languorously. “I’m not feeling particularly inclined to a ride today, Captain. No.”

“Why not? The weather is said to be capital.”

Richard’s six of spades was trumped by an ace of diamonds. He frowned bitterly and drew another card, but his mouth remained shut.

“It’s a shame you still refuse to go to Bath, Richard.” The captain tried engaging him once more into conversation. “I hear the waters might do you good.”

Oh yes, Bath. Where else would two gallant young men such as themselves be, if not where most of polite society gathered for the social season? The dinner parties, the recitals, the balls, the hot waters, park promenades, claret and champagne flowing everyday. Richard did not care a fig about it all. He did not, even though the wounds he had suffered at his last battle still pained him considerably. He deemed them a small price to pay for defending his King and Country, the by-products of his most honest British exultation.

“Bath can be hanged for all I care.”

Captain Tudor frowned slightly at that statement, but kept on playing without so much as a sneer. They both fell to a sulky silence, a reticent pause interrupted only by the sliding of card against card, card against table. Richard itched to shatter that silence so akin to peace.

“Have you scored 11 yet, Tudor, or do you plan to lead me on for longer? Have you done with me yet?”

The captain laid all his cards on the table, face down. He sighed, and his whole expression seemed to say: _Gentlemen of the guard, fire at will_. “Go on, sir. Go on.”

“Go on about what, sir?” He gave Captain Tudor a decidedly bilious look, eyes gleaming, searching and confronting.

There is a moment in every relationship, they say, where the thing that caused one to be so infatuated with becomes the very thing one hates. Richard stared at the captain squarely, looked at him fully as though watching him for the first time. Him, with his so-called superiority, his military and dandified airs. And to think Richard had endangered the salvation of his soul over such liaison.

“What the devil is wrong with you today, Captain? I should like to know.”

“Wrong with me?” He fired back. “Why, sir, you intend to marry my niece.”

His words seemed to reverberate in that lofty room, crashing down around them like an unexpected gunshot. It was not a question. Richard had never meant to ask one. It was a suspicion he had long held in his chest.

It had all begun on the occasion of that Christmas ball at the family residence of W—, a splendid evening that many guests still spoke highly of. Richard had planned every detail down to the carpets and the cushions, making up for genteel, well-furnished rooms. His commissioned Indian tapestries decorated the walls of the hall leading to the dining room, transporting the visitors to the journey of the Magi across the perils of the Sahara. The ballroom had fountains running with champagne generously placed along the corners. Sherbet had been offered the entire evening, along with mince pies and pudding and all other traditional Christmas delicacies. The whole time, Captain Richard Gloucester had been the most hospitable and jovial of hosts, as good-natured as only a fellow with a reputable income and a newly found love for life could be.

It was amidst those wonderful gaieties that the picture struck him. Captain Henry Tudor — his most distinguished guest, who had been introduced to every person of importance inside Richard’s selected circle of acquaintances — and the Lady Elizabeth performed not one, but _two_ country-dances together. He, looking quite proud and radiant in his blue coat, brass buttons and fashionable waistcoat. She, a fresh-cheeked lass of nineteen, looking like a perfect bibelot in her white muslin dress. A China doll really, with nothing to do but smile and wag its bobbing head. Some distance apart, Lady Margaret Beaufort and the Dowager Duchess Elizabeth sat together, chatting in what could only be described as conspiratorial secrecy.

It had to be that sly wretch, his brother’s widow, to come and meddle in his affairs. That artful hussy had seduced his brother Edward to the great advantage of her profligate brothers and upstart family. Now the old harridan seemed bent upon turning his nieces into wicked, ungrateful vixens. Richard observed Captain Tudor and the Lady Elizabeth from his corner of the room, watched the exchange of a few bright smiles and a few candid looks. He saw Tudor linger a hand on her waist as they danced, watched him whisper some jest that made his niece blush prettily and issue her soft fluttering laugh. When the musicians paused for refreshments, Lady Elizabeth came hurrying to his side.

“Oh what a gallant, valiant young gentleman your friend is, uncle!”

What could he have said then? Richard took a sip from his brandy and nodded begrudgingly. “Captain Tudor is a most capital fellow, yes.”

“There’s not a finer fellow in the service, they say.” Elizabeth went on breathlessly. She, who was usually so simple and unaffected. “And not a better officer either.”

To whom that _they_ referred, Richard could only begin to guess. Captain Henry Tudor inspired divided loyalties inside the Navy. He was adored by his division, certainly, and his whole command swore by him in frantic admiration. And yet, though people were glad enough to shake him by the hand, there were some names who sneered at him and hated his very person.

“I thoroughly admire the character of the Navy, uncle. Your friendliness, your brotherliness, your… your uprightness...” Her pupils seemed to dance of their own accord and a timid smile graced her features. “And oh, how very brave the stories make Captain Tudor be! Pray, uncle, do tell me they’re all true!”

His niece had her cheeks rosy with exertion from dancing, or maybe from her own boldness for enquiring so unabashedly after Captain Tudor. Richard followed her gaze across the room to find it fixed on said officer, who had just returned by another door and was now holding a glass of wine. As much as Elizabeth tried to remain modest, her eyes seemed to sing _“And how very dashing he looks in his uniform!”_ Richard had thought her conduct most imprudent that evening, not to call it by any worse name.

Tudor had reassured him later that night with a laugh and wine-stained kiss. _“Bon Dieu, what sort of nonsensical ideals you have, Richard! So you say the girl is devilish taken with me, is she? Well, what about it? Let her have her fancy. Yes, why not! She’s a poor harmless creature.”_

But Richard had noticed, on many other such social occasions, that the captain did not rebuke the young girl’s attentions. On the contrary, he encouraged her attachment with the utmost enthusiasm and friendliness. She adorned her person most tenderly, all soft movements and modest graces to win his favour. She proved to be the kindest, purest, sweetest girl in England… and not to forget also a heiress, mentioned with applause in _The Morning Post_. In a word, a perfect _trouvaille_.

Whenever they met, the Lady Elizabeth would offer him her little hand to kiss — a hand covered with the neatest, prettiest French kid glove. She began playing his favourite songs at the carved-legged grand piano, brilliant new pieces of the French repértoire. On such occasions in the drawing room, Tudor would turn her pages as she played the keys, and their voices would mingle together to soar high through the whole length of the evening. Neither of them was a particularly skillful singer, but the combination of her sweet pitch and his deep-toned voice made for a pretty and entertaining ensemble. Richard could only watch those enactments sourly. It all felt like a cruel jape to him. He had always dearly loved to hear the captain sing his French ballads, bicorne placed under his arm, lips moving as solemnly as in prayer.

Richard could see, not without a sting of jealousy, what a handsome couple they could make. She, looking like an English rose with her blonde beauty, her estates and her inheritance money. He, a young officer newly promoted, with his military accomplishments and valour, as brilliantly dressed as Mr Brummel himself. His allowance, together with Elizabeth’s settlement, would certainly enable them to take up residence in any good sporting neighbourhood in the country. Never before had such a mésalliance turned out to be so profitable.

The dark green curtains swayed with a sudden gust of wind. In the long stretching pause that followed Richard’s statement, Captain Tudor slowly stood up and left the card table, reaching for that bottle of Madeira he seemed to appreciate so much. _Devilish fine wine_ , as he called it. It made Richard half-mad to see the calm in which the captain filled himself a glass.

“Well, do you or do you not, Captain?”

Tudor smacked down his glass and looked him full in the face, eyes shining with resolve. “I do. It is my wish to marry Elizabeth.”

Richard felt a sudden blow, the wind was knocked out of his lungs. He got up from his chair and clutched at the windowsill. He didn’t know what pained him more, Tudor’s confession, or, as they entered the genteel marriage season, the certainty of the arrangement to come to pass. He stayed silent for a time, his back turned to the captain, unable to move and meet his eyes.

“I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

Captain Tudor always seemed to gaze at his niece with the utmost attention, almost affection. Richard knew his statement was a poorly disguised complaint. He knew he was complaining when he had no right to it — when he had no right to _him_.

He heard Captain Tudor sighing softly behind him. “She is a dear, lovely young creature. Charmingly simple and fond. It would be very hard to look at her in any other way.”

Oh yes, his niece was the most angelical of young women, was she? Such an artless, affectionate, forgiving creature! Just the sort of little domestic madonna men were so inclined to worship. Richard clenched his right fist tight, unclenched it, clenched it again. The captain’s words stung him far more than he could admit to himself. His troubled brain only allowed a half-formed thought to pass: _Faded, insipid, simpering girl._.. What did she have to recommend her but a pair of pink cheeks and her wax-doll face?

He turned to confront Tudor with accusing eyes and renewed, anger-fuelled strength. “Do you love her?”

The captain scoffed and turned away. “Do you take me for a love-stricken fool?” He started to gather his scattered clothes, hastily picking up every item from the floor. “I _intend_ to love her, Richard. Some would say there is a difference.”

Captain Gloucester frowned deeply, feeling the heat dangerously rise to his face. He spat out a merciless sneer. “Coming from you, Captain, I should have known.”

Henry Tudor stopped midway through his frenzied quest. He froze in the most comical position, one leg up his trousers, one leg out. If not for the direness of their argument, Richard might have laughed at the picture he made. His big owlish eyes blinked several times.

“You hint at something dishonourable, then?”

It seemed Tudor was finally close to losing his temper, but so was Richard. “You only wish to get her name and her fortune, I say, so you can advance your career!”

Richard knew the ambition that lived inside the young captain’s heart. He knew Henry Tudor aspired to be a flag officer. He knew he dreamt of sporting three silver stars on each epaulette as only an admiral could. To rise through the ranks demanded money, connections, means. Captain Tudor had always been keen on gaining his share of honour and distinction, and he had never been as close to achieving those as he was then. Presentations at court and introductions to half the peerage must surely fill the young officer’s mind when contemplating that marriage.

“Oh, yes. You would do well to marry her, I suppose.”

“By Jove, Richard! A money-grubbing vulgarian! Is that what you call me?” Tudor huffed most indignantly, pulling up his shirt collars and hastily tying up his neckcloth. “You, of all people, accuse me of such? When you did the very same by marrying your late wife, God bless her soul? How very dare you, sir?”

Richard closed his eyelids for a moment. _Sweet gentle Anne_. Life had not been easy for her, but the life of the wife of a sailor rarely ever was. Their marriage had been divided by the constant wars he had been engaged in to defend the Empire. To complicate matters further, Anne had suffered from seasickness, which made her time aboard his ship all the more difficult for her to bear. Richard knew what troubles his niece would face if she were ever to truly marry Captain Tudor.

“I _cared_ for Anne, Captain.” He opened up his eyes in defiance. Self-righteousness filled him to the brim. “But we are just things for you, are we not? Crutches for you to lean in, steps for you to climb.”

Something along the captain’s features hardened considerably. Tudor buttoned up his waistcoat with calculated calm and precision. “You’ve adopted such a tone regarding me lately, Richard. I will not try to dissuade you from your low opinion of me. It makes no difference to who I am.”

There, another thing the two captains had in common. They were both relentlessly stubborn. But whereas Tudor seemed cold-blooded and cynical, Richard’s own blood ran hot in his veins whenever it had cause to — something that seemed to be bound to happen more and more often those last weeks. Nay, something that was bound to happened ever since their first meeting.

“You will not try to defend yourself for you know it is the truth!”

“What did you expect of me, Richard?” Captain Tudor flashed out, spinning around to face him again. If Richard wanted a reaction from him, he had just gotten one. “Did you think I was going to be a bachelor forever? Or did you expect me to take you to the altar instead?” He paused and his voice toned down. Letting out a great heave, his eyes lowered and fixed on the floor. “You know that could never be.”

Richard felt as though his body was struck by a hundred swords. Merciless enemies, invisible and furious, swarmed him from all sides. His head, his chest, his arms, they were all in sudden and acute pain. A wide chasm rose between the two of them with a soundless crack. In that room abruptly silent, Richard contemplated the jaws of death. Coldness crept upon his spine along tortuous, sinuous lines.

He paced aimlessly across the room only to stop at the sight of his old chaplet resting on the card table. With a small voice, so small he could barely hear himself speak, he asked. “Do you believe in God, Captain?" So many people didn't seem to do it those days.

“What strange sort of question is that?”

The captain was right, there was no use in asking such a question. What difference did it make whether the sinner crossed himself, whether he looked up heavenward and uttered _“Oh so forgive me, Lord”_ as he slashed his brother’s throat?

“I will not attend the wedding.” Richard said after a long pause. His jaw had the stiffness of a corpse.

“She _is_ your niece—”

He shook his head. “I will not go, I tell you.”

Richard hated the very idea of that union, but just the possibility of seeing Tudor sporting a blooming wedding favour on his blue coat was doubly odious to him.

“What excuse will you give, then?”

“I do not know yet.” He hesitated for a second at the sight of his half-formed ideas. “I will ask to be sent to sea. I’ll go to the West Indies, to Calcutta, maybe take a post in Jamaica. All I know is this: I shall not come back again.”

His rebellion seemed to sadden Captain Tudor, if the drop of his eyebrows was any hint. “Are these your final words?”

“Yes.” His eyes found his and challenged them one last time. “I will be first and foremost, Tudor, or nothing at all.”

The captain stepped back as if struck, but smiled sadly. “No more war and glory, then? No more longing for your name to be listed in the _Gazette_?” He paused, but his answer never came. Tudor lowered his eyes, his expression unreadable. “Very well, then.”

The captain proceeded to complete the rest of his toilette. The grand longcase clock in the room, heartless and unwavering in its solitude, ticked away the minutes. Seeing Tudor dressed up in his velvety Hessian boots, a sudden dread took over Richard's soul. The terror of the unknown opened up to him and he grasped at whatever scrap of that life he was leaving, clung to that last bit of certainty like a drowning man. Death by water was always a merciless passing.

“Tudor...” He waited for the captain to stop and look at him. “We had good times, did we not?”

The captain came to his place by the window and took his hand. “The best of times, my friend.”

Tudor landed his lips on the soft skin of the underside of his wrist. For a moment only, there was no ticking clock, no green curtains, no clothes scattered along the carpeted floor. There was only the two of them, two dazzled young men basked in sunlight. That kiss hurt Richard more than any wound could ever do. Christ, too, had been betrayed with a kiss.

Henry Tudor moved to the door and placed his hand on the doorknob. His shoulders rose and fell. “Will you write to me, Richard?”

The nothingness of silence. The times for purging his sins had come.

“Farewell then, my captain.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I would very much like to give another ending to this story, this one felt thematically right. This fic was originally meant to be a oneshot, then I was only going to write two chapters (chapters 1 and 3), and then eventually I wanted to give more depth to Richard and Henry's relationship, so chapter 2 was born.
> 
> A Henry POV was also another thing that I thought of including, but I decided to only write Richard's POV because (1) I never get the chance to write him and it feels very refreshing as a writer to be able to play with different characters and (2) writing from his POV leaves Henry's actions decidedly ambiguous. Since Richard is so biased in his conclusions, ultimately it's up to the readers to judge Henry's actions.
> 
> Just some slight bit of trivia: Margaret Beaufort is still a lady in this AU even if her son is not a peer himself. It was mentioned in the first chapter that Henry was "a son of the gentry", which means his father didn't belong to any noble house. But as Margaret Beaufort was the daughter of an earl, she still holds the title of lady even if not marrying nobility. 
> 
> It was an amazing experience to write this story. It was so different from anything that I had tried yet. I'm sorry the updates were so apart from each other, but I hope you had some fun while reading this story. As always, my inbox is open to hear your opinions and to answer your questions. Thank you so much for reading! Writing is fun but sharing is even more xx


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